Coke with a Twist (A Mercy Watts short) Page 5

“And everything was good? Did they do an echo, stress test?”

  “They did the full series. Dr. Kahn was very pleased, especially with the weight loss.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I said.

  “Will we?” she said, brushing a fresh tear off her face.

  “Definitely. I’ll take care of it. Do you want to go home now?”

  “Home? What for?”

  “Well, you could lie down for awhile or something.” I really didn’t know what to do. Dixie waited for me to decide, to tell her what was next, and I hadn’t a clue. I’d comforted people plenty of times before, but it was a short-lived operation. The bad news was broken, backs patted, calls made, coffee given, and they went on their way. I’d no idea what happened after they left the hospital. It wasn’t my business to know. Mom should’ve been there. She’d know what to say, what funeral home to call, everything. But Mom was incommunicado and I was on my own.

  “Can I get you something, coffee or tea?” I sounded lame, even to myself.

  “Tea,” she said.

  I think she wanted to give me something to do, or maybe she wanted to be alone. I went to the staff lounge and rooted through the cabinets till I came up with some chamomile and lemon zest. I didn’t know which Dixie would want. I made the chamomile because that’s what Dad drinks after a bad day.

  I returned, measuring my strides, not anxious to get back. A group of nuns crossed my path and I felt the warmth of the tea comforting me through the cup as I waited. Hot drinks did it for me. Whether it was a hot chocolate, mulled wine, or one of Dad’s yummy hot toddies, I felt better the moment the cup hit my hands. Then a feather-light touch on my shoulder brought me out of my revelry.

  “Mercy?”

  I looked up into the ancient face of Sister Francis. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. She touched my shoulder again and said, “Are you alright, dear?”

  I choked on the word yes. My throat was too hot and tight for words. I wished she hadn’t asked. Her asking made me feel worse.

  “Come sit down with me,” she said.

  I shook my head and said, “No.” It came out more like a croak, but Sister understood.

  “Please, dear. You don’t look well.” She took me by the elbow and guided me to the waiting room. She was strong for the world’s oldest nun. I made the punch for her ninety-fourth birthday party last year. She was also the tallest, maybe six two in bare feet. My great aunt Miriam once told me Sister Francis joined the order because she was too tall to get married. Aunt Miriam and Sister Francis weren’t the best of friends.

  Great Aunt Miriam. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before. She would know what to do. Shit. I was stupid. It was her job. She was a Sister of Mercy, too.

  “Aunt Miriam,” I said.

  Sister Francis started and said, “Miriam? Has something happened to Miriam?”

  “No. Sorry. I just realized I need to talk to her. Do you know where she is today?”

  Her face hardened, then she said, “I wouldn’t know. I believe she has a cellular phone.”

  Sister Francis didn’t believe in cell phones. She thought they made a person too self-important. She was probably right, but then again Sister Francis didn’t believe in microwaves either.

  “Thanks, Sister. I have to go.”

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “Family friend died. I have to call Aunt Miriam.”

  I found Dixie and gave her the tea. “I’ll be right back.”

  Dixie probably had her cell phone on her, but it didn’t seem polite to ask. I, of course, had a dead cell phone. It spent at least fifty percent of the time dead. Long battery life, my ass. Lucky for me none of the hospital volunteers were on duty at the information desk and I didn’t have to explain using the phone. Those ladies in pink were surprisingly territorial about their phone. I’d been told off more than once.

  I did have my little address book that Mom insisted I carry because technology can’t be counted on. I hated it when she was right. I dialed Aunt Miriam’s number and waited. Aunt Miriam was notorious for being unable to find the on button on her phone. Her service invariably picked up. Once I called back four times before she figured it out. Aunt Miriam isn’t as old as Sister Francis, but she’s getting up there.

  “Hello.” It was a miracle, only two tries.

  “Aunt Miriam, it’s Mercy. Are you busy?”

  “It’s Tuesday. You know I’m at the council meeting and they’re waiting,” she said.

  I didn’t know. Why would she assume I kept up with her schedule?

  “This is important,” I said.

  “I’m sure it is.” Aunt Miriam sniffed.

  “Gavin Flouder died. I’m at the hospital with Dixie.”

  “I’ll be right there.” She hung up without ceremony and my chest flooded with relief. Aunt Miriam would take over and I was off the hook.

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